Threshold of Hell
by Shadow Sanctuary
Summary: He has one hope for survival, just one glimmer of hope that will either make or break him. With destiny literally clawing on his chamber door, can Seto reach his knife in time before he becomes a victim?


Chapter One: Fatal Fury

A trickle of blood ran down his temple as he ducked beside a wall. The face was nicked, but at least it was still intact. He couldn't say the same for the rest of his friends, though--most were either severed at the waist or had their heads torn off. This was no lie. They were ambushed by a group of snarling dogs--well, that's what they _thought _they were--until the glow of their flashlights proved that they were wrong. Dead wrong. For the pack of growling animals weren't really man's best friend, leash loving canines, or anything like that. Matter of fact, they barely looked like dogs at all. Their hides were slicked with red fluid; something he mistook for paint, but that was a terrible misunderstanding, too. Dozens of tusk-like formations jutted out of the creatures' chests, moving in and out of their skin with every sinister noise they made. Wretched, wicked, or vile couldn't even begin to describe these things, these ghoulish thieves of lives, a collection of the ugliest, most terrifying monsters to cross his path. That's something he knows that's going to haunt his dreams forever: the near-death experience of having the nightmarish triplets coming straight for him, black eyes plastered to his vulnerable frame, jaws hanging open, teeth bared and ready to pull apart his juicy flesh, ears pulled back at the sounds of sharp shrieks, three crimson soaked fiends pleasuring their tongues with the flavor of fresh meat rolling inside of their mouths. As a bead of sweat trickled over his features, he squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled. When it seemed like there was nowhere left to run or hide, sheer dumb luck came in and saved his day, giving him the strength to jump out of harm's way and scamper into a nearby room. Sick smacks echoed throughout the corridors outside of the place he was in, giving him the good news that he had shut the door to this place quick enough to avoid becoming an appetizer. Instinctively, he made the sign of the cross on himself, quietly thanking God for his time and patience in dealing with him. Church was never a part of his weekly routine, but he suddenly decided to be there on a daily basis--only if the man upstairs was going to continue covering for him, that is. 

_Just a little while longer, alright? _he begged, clasping hands then and there to beg the holy creator for his assistance. _I'll actually start being a good Christian and go to mass, donate my spare change to the collection plate, sing in the choir--you name it and I'll do it. Hell, I'd even be a priest and live like Mother Teresa if you promise to keep me safe. Just stay with me. Stay with me a little while longer…_

For what it's worth, he actually felt better after the haphazard praying. To up his chances of being heard by Mr. Almighty Himself, he choked out a Hail Mary and an Our Father, hoping to win some decent favor from Him. He helped him out _this_ far, so he saw no reason why He would abandon him now. Wishing there was some truth to his faulty logic; he finished his small talk with the Lord and stuck a shaky hand into his jacket. Flipping the material over, he ran his fingers across the white silk, feeling for the secret compartment he crafted once upon a rainy hour of boredom. 

"Please be here…" he whispered, a crazy sensation of fright suppressing his vocal chords. "please…"

Hysterical seconds went by where he could feel nothing but the smooth interior of his coat. Oxygen came in and out of his mouth in short waves, tensing the muscles in his body, constricting his thoughts into rapid images of a grim and brutal future. A strangled cry escaped his throat, primitive and savage, a whimper that was laced with desperation. Where _was_ it? Where did he hide it? A slew of terrible ideas rushed into his head, attacking his already fear-driven senses, overloading him with despair on a lethal level. What if he left it in his room? That was great, just downright _perfect_ under the dire circumstances--and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about his carelessness. Maybe it fell out? Chewing his bottom lip, he considered the possibility. No. Nu-uh. That just wasn't a realistic option for him, not to mention that his reasoning made no sense to him whatsoever. He never let the object out of his reaching distance, so letting the item randomly fall from his pocket was a big--nope, better make that _huge_--no-no. Frustrated, his head fell between his shoulders while his hand followed suit. 

_Good going, Brilliant. _he snapped at himself sarcastically. Sour about the whole mess he had gotten himself into, he clenched his teeth together, gritting the jaws against each other so hard that the enamel was bound to be chipped. Lines of perspiration dribbled from his temples, sliding across his face like rows of terrible tears. Only mere seconds away from panicking, he set his fingers on his legs, flexed his limbs in rhythm with his heart, then dug his nails into his thighs. Now_ what am I gonna do? _he kept asking himself over and over again, the question plaguing his mind like an old record player's needle stuck on the same phrase of a song. _What? What am I gonna do?_

Before he lost himself to exasperating despair, a creepy rumble washed the walls of his storage area, the dark dank sanctuary that helped save his butt from being a rump roast shivered involuntarily. Literally shaking in his shoes, he swallowed forcefully, cramming the knot of dread into his midsection. Immediately, his body suffered from the cruel actions, making him slap a hand over his lips to keep the vomit from coming up. A vinegary taste was dominating his senses, but he fought against himself to prevent any unwanted accidents. He couldn't have that, just couldn't _stand _the scent of throw up, and that's that. No barfing on him, no way, no how. The set of clothes he had on cost more than his house or anything _inside _the residence, so wearing a sheet of liquidized food didn't really appeal to him. Besides, how would he get chunks of last night's meal out of satin? Couldn't bleach the clothes, that would destroy--

Forlorn howls drifted towards his ears, invading his laundry analysis with claws of immortal trauma. Uselessly, he snapped his head from side to side, a worthless sign of negation that amplified his frail human nature. 

_No…_whispered his broken dialogue, shattered in the wake of isolation. _No, don't let them get me. Please don't let them get me. God, Jesus, angels we have heard on high, I love you all! Don't abandon me yet! Don't even think about doing that! Can you hear me up there? STAY WITH ME!_

Painful scraping tore into the door in front of him, rocking the metal frame with such a magnitude of raw power that long grates began to appear randomly, heavy gashes engraving themselves into the once flawless silver panel. If that was the effect of a single one of those creatures on an iron door, then he knew that he didn't have a chance of surviving a hit like that. Except with him, _his_ frame would be so mangled and torn that a forensic scientist wouldn't be able to ID his teeth. Maybe there wouldn't be anything left of him after the satanic thing got a hold of him. Maybe he'd be eaten alive with one mighty swallow, chomped on severely, then, with the last valuable seconds of his life, end up being crushed to death by the constricting valves of the massive esophagus housing him. Grasping his hair, a stack of wiry vines wet with anxiety, he rocked himself back and forth. His heart rapped the sides of his ribs, hurting the other organs surrounding it, adding a hypnotic trance-like beat to the music of his impending doom. 

_Ba__-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum…_

"Come on," he said, pulling himself together, "it's not going to end this way, not like this."

Howls that mirrored the sound a banshee made reached his ears, damaging his hearing with loud, screeching yelps, tearing at his insides like the Grim Reaper searching for a new soul to take home. They were growing _stronger_, God have mercy, the animalistic screams pierced the boy's heart in such a barbaric fashion that he felt as if his own spirit was being snatched from him. The demons were coming—no, practically _lunging_ at him through a metal frame—and all he could do was freeze up like a corpse hanging in the balance between life and death.

_Babum__, babum, babum…_

Literally tearing apart the lining of his jacket, the male dumped everything out of the garment, spilling the bare contents of a gum wrapper, cigarette lighter, a pack of Camel cigs, some loose change—

"_The _fuck _is it_?" he cried, panic controlling his voice and actions, his hands frantically searching through the small batch of items. "_It was there, right there_! _It didn't go far, it _couldn't _go THAT  far_!"

Outside, the bloodthirsty snarling continued, thick with drool and a lust for fresh flesh. Not just _any _kind of flesh, but _human _flesh, the type that was easy to demolish, chew, swallow, tantalize the sicko taste buds with. There they were, the door wouldn't last for long, and soon they would be in the room to close in for the kill—__

_Babum__, babum, babum, ba-ba-bum…_

Heart skipping a frenzied beat, the teen drove his nails into the ground and bit his lip, spraying  furious curses into the air.

"God _damnit_!" he yelled, his fate closing in on him. Nothing he could really do about that, but it _did _happen to be eating away at his subconscious. "I mean, _God _fucking _damn it! What n_ow? _Tell me, you sadistic ass of a deit! WHAT THE _FUCK_ AM I GOING TO DO_?"

Falling into a childish pose, he felt tears bubble up beneath his already swollen lids. It would hurt like a mother to cry again, but what option did he have left? Hell, may as well get the bullshit off his chest so he can die happily instead of worrying himself sick. Dropping his head in bitter defeat, he eyed his scattered belongings darkly. 

"Damn," he swore to himself again, "damn, damn, damn, _damn_. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and look—the thing finally turned to rust."

Laughing a bitter last laugh, he raked his hand through a stringy mass of brown tresses, twirled a lock of his bangs, then glanced down by his possessions and saw—

"No way…" he whispered to himself, his voice thick with surprise, his eyes so big and round that they were in pain once more, "No way, there's just no fucking _way_—"

There, hidden under his carton of cancer, lay something silver and shiny, a small point of something that promised to get his ass out of jeopardy. Laughter sprung from his vocal chords, not like the gesture of mad yodeling of before, but a much more pleasant sound that showed he had _some _degree of sanity left. 

"_There it is_!" he nearly squealed to himself, his anxiety replaced by temporary relief. "_There, right there_! _If I can _just_ get my fingers out there, then maybe—maybe I can--"_

Stretching his limb towards the coveted switchblade, he was so _close_ to obtaining the weapon, a precious few _seconds_ away from grasping its dull handle when the door burst open, revealing a very nasty reincarnation of Satan's pet. Its eyes glowed at him from the front of the space, narrowing at his movements, tracking every single move he made. Scared sapphires stuck to the deranged atrocity in front of them, the owner of the gemstone spheres silent and motionless. Both man and beast stared each other down, watching, waiting for the time when one or the other would grow balls enough to strike. Or move, for that matter. Catching a glimpse of himself in the knife's reflection, Seto saw something he didn't like. Fear. He never liked the emotion, _hated_ it more than anything else invented. Clamping his jaws together in rage, he lifted his lips into an identical snarl, one that was as ferocious as his fucked opponent's, forced a battle cry from his terror-stricken lungs, then made a dive for his only hope for life as the deformed canine sprung for his throat.


End file.
